Hope For Mended Faiths
by GreenCookie
Summary: Beneath the man is a hurting heart. One shot fic. Slash: RL-SB.


Disclaimer: Anything appearing here that has previously appeared in any other form does not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
AN: This is set on a random full moon night during Professor Lupin's service at Hogwarts. It is very angsty, yes, and it is late night ramblings (2AM in the morning if you like). It is slash, the only slash I'm really fond of: Remus/Sirius. I hope you guys like it and please review.

* * *

Hope For Mended FaithsThe sun had just begun to set, and Remus Lupin looked up from behind his desk as the harsh orange glow fell boldly into his window and patterned itself neatly as shadows across his face. The moon would rise soon, he knew. The moon would rise and with it, the waxy light made for lovers...and the wrecking terrors made for werewolves.  
  
He ran his hands gently over the leather bound book before him, softly, lovingly, brushing away the years of dust that had settled on it. It had been so long ago that he had packed it away, placing it roughly in a pocket of his trunk hoping never to see its contents again, thinking foolishly, wrongly, that if he couldn't see it, it wouldn't hurt so much. Over time, the pain had taken a back seat (never diminished, oh no, it would never go) as he threw himself into his work or well, search for work, but tonight, he could only suppose Snape had placed something into the Wolfsbane potion that made him slightly masochistic for he had gone into a frantic search for this very book earlier. There had been a sudden hunger inside him, craving for unsoiled memories, for unbroken friendships...craving for hope of mended faiths.  
  
With trembling fingers he lifted the front cover of the book. The first thing that greeted him was one of the first pictures that had ever been taken of the four of them, the summer of their first year which they had spent at James' place, playing Quidditch, playing pranks, altogether just playing he remembered. A ghost of a smile was creeping onto his face as he stared down at the four young faces: James, grinning, his fist pumping in the air, a small Snitch struggling in his fingers; a younger Remus, smiling eagerly at the camera, an unconscious hand reaching down every once in a while to brush down his robes; Peter, shorter than all the rest, his pudgy hands wrapped around his neighbouring friends' waists; and Sirius.  
  
The smile disappeared and he began to flip through the pages rapidly, ignoring the waves and attractions of the other photos in the album. It was only near the end he stopped, having found what he was looking for. A single photo laid on the page; it had been a candid shot though he couldn't remember where or when he had taken it. He only knew that this photo was the portrait of everything that laid inside him.  
  
He traced the curve of Sirius' proud nose with a rough finger. He could still see the arrogance in his friend's eyes, taunting and mocking as it always was, horribly acerbic and yet, somehow with an undefined allure. Beyond it, Remus could see Sirius' driving force, one that people could never determine yet knew existed: passion. And he was ashamed to admit it, even now, after all that had happened, Remus still felt the cruel wanting inside him; the desperate desire for Sirius' passion.  
  
And he was afraid.  
  
The photo seemed to come alive beneath his touch. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel Sirius breathing beside him, lounging comfortably on a chair, black hair flopping into his eyes with a casual sophistication that had always made Remus' hands itch to brush aside, lean arms that balanced him precariously on the back legs of the chair. He could almost feel the beat of Sirius' heart, strong and steady, and his voice, making an already broken promise. The Marauders are here for you, Moony, always, mate. I'll rip my own heart out before leaving you to fend those anti-werewolf bastards alone.  
  
He had believed Sirius then and he had given his heart away to the first person who had ever pledged anything, everything, to his defence. And he must be crazy, for even now, alone without James or Peter or Sirius, even now, after struggling through years of malicious prejudice, he still believed Sirius, still believed his shattered promise, still wanted nothing more than the cool touch of Sirius' lips against his and his firm hands in his own and the knowledge that as long as Sirius was here with him, like this, everything would be alright.  
  
A wind was blowing into the room now, a northern wind that pricked the hairs on his arms and the ones at the back of his neck. He moved to the window, bent on shutting it, but paused when he saw a stirring of shadows on the horizon. There was a coldness and a terror riding inside him now and he could feel his thoughts beginning to reel, flashing through his head a multitude of hidden memories like an old time horror Muggle movie. Quickly, he slammed the window down.  
  
His breath was coming quick now, quick and hard, and he struggled to subside. Dumbledore had, at the beginning of the term, allowed the Dementors to reside on the perimeters of the school grounds, to guard them all against the criminal Black. He had asked for the cooperation of all staff members with the sentries of Azkaban, asked them all to share any information as soon as they received it, any information that may assist in the capture of the criminal Black. Remus still remembered trying to maintain a steady gaze in return to Dumbledore's benign one. He wondered whether Dumbledore had known, knew, the emotions and the craze that had stirred inside of him upon hearing Sirius referred to as 'that criminal Black'.  
  
He had agreed then as he reminded himself of James and Lily's death...of Peter's death...of Sirius' betrayal...he had thought he knew Sirius, but it hurt to realize that no, he never really did. So he had agreed then. He had passed off the perfect front, participating in all their discussions and giving them information on most of the Marauders' old hideouts in places where Sirius had been spotted, and to them, he had been nothing short of wanting to hunt down Sirius and dragging him in to the Dementors himself.  
  
But they never knew, Minerva, Snape, Moody, Dumbled– Dumbledore might have known, he thought abashedly – they never knew the rush of cold fire in his veins as he thought of Sirius again, never knew the sick, desperate longing brought back from his younger days of wanting to touch Sirius' skin, lips, wanting to taste Sirius and to feel Sirius' cool burning passion with him in the dark of the night. They never knew and he never told, but if he had one night met Sirius on the grounds of Hogwarts...the inane love that was his weakness...then they would have known. He would never be able to turn Sirius in.  
  
Suddenly, he froze. There was a familiar sensation crawling up his back and as he turned, he saw the moon in all her glory, smiling innocently down at him. A low moan was rising from deep in his throat and then his body exploded in pain.  
  
How many times had he been through this, he had lost count, but the torture had never faded. The beast inside knew this was the one night it was set free, and it ripped to the surface frantically, eagerly. His muscles twisted and stretched, yanking themselves into disproportionate contours, and his innards grinded and shifted, swelling and shrinking, pulsating with a screaming intensity that made him pant. His skin rippled and became a hide, molded with the grotesque sinews within. The claws came, breaking through his soft nails, slashing through the air with a feral ferocity, through his feet, scratching sharply into the wooden floor beneath.  
  
Wolfsbane left his eyes and his mind human, but tonight, he would all but wish it away. Tonight was his excuse. He let loose a wailing howl, a cry that flocked the nesting birds outside and told the world of a hurting heart. Albus Dumbledore sat up in his bed and listened, his face unreadable as he listened to the werewolf's orchestra of screams, echoing with a long hidden ache. He listened and he closed his eyes and he prayed for hope...hope for mended faiths.  
  
In a teacher's office, alone and lonely, a werewolf curled up beneath the table and began to weep. And the tears that fell...pleaded for mended faiths.

* * *

AN: So how did I do? Review please! 


End file.
